Absolution
by Mr.Crouch'sDaughter
Summary: Ch 7 up. Sherlock seeks domination. John seeks answers. Will they find absolution in the end? Warning: Slash, violence, drug abuse. Reviews are love.
1. Answers

**Absolution**

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other of the characters.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Rating: R for BDSM and slash. You've been warned.

Summary: Sherlock seeks domination. John seeks answers. Will they find absolution in the end?

Author's Note: Written under the influence of the song "1000 Ships Underworld No Choir" from Two Steps From Hell.

Chapter One: Answers

"_I wouldn__'t call him a slave. I don't whip him when he does something wrong. Just when he does something good."__ (Shannon Elizabeth)  
><em>

They are using the whip again. The man he brought with him today is like all the others before. Bully, tall, with glassy, distracted eyes. I suspect he picks them up at the stations, between two shots of heroin, chooses the one with the lowest emotional affection.

He doesn't say anything anymore when they come up. He just looks at me with his blue eyes, his expression neutral and unemotional, and I follow his unspoken order and leave for my room.

I remember how it started, just the night after we escaped the death trap at the pool.

"I am going out", he had said, matter-of-factly. "I am going to bring company with me when I come home. I suggest you leave for your room, then. And I advise you to stay in there, no matter what you might hear."

I remember how I looked at him, astonished. I had spent some time with him until that day and he had never seemed sexually interested in anyone or anything until that evening. And then he was standing there, saying lightly he would bring someone with him, as if he just needed to go down the streets and catch someone. Well, that was actually what he did, but I wasn't aware of that in this moment.

"Okay", I said, still perplex, but he made no explanation. I wish he would have. But he just took his coat and went off, his steps determined.

It took him only an hour to come back. I looked at the guy who was following him on feet and was totally irritated. Not that he brought a guy with him; I had always suspected him to be more into men then women, for he used to treat every woman either as if she was hollow, or dumb.

But the outward appearance of the man he had chosen was so… different to his. He was tall and bully, his clothes a mess, smelling almost like he had taken them from a garbage can. It took me several seconds to understand, took me some time to realise his trembling hands, the dull and impassive eyes.

By that time, Sherlock had already set his eyes onto me, telling me wordlessly to leave. And I did. I didn't ask any questions. Maybe I should have done it. Maybe if I had stopped him at the first time (though I am not quite sure if I would have been able to), I wouldn't have had all those sleepless nights in the last time.

But I didn't. It seems there are lots of things I should have done, but never did.

He screams. I can hear the screams, though they are muffled. I wonder what they use to silence the screams. Or maybe I don't want to know. But the screams aren't the reason I lay awake. I can handle screams. I have heard a lot of them, desperate screams, helpless screams, hurt screams, down at war. The reason I lay awake is the sound of the whip hitting his flesh.

The walls are thin.

I imagine the end of the black whip matching his porcelain flesh, ripping it open. It must be a dark artistic contrast, the black whip, the pale skin and the blood.

It almost hurts me physically to think about it. He never asks me to help him, though. Next morning, when the man is gone, he will come for breakfast, sit down at the chair (paying attention not to touch the back of it) and eat silently. He will not ask me to have a look at his back, or even ask me to suggest him an ointment.

He will sit there, silently, like a statue and first start talking to me again when it's afternoon. Only I won't be there by afternoon. I will sit there, at the table and have breakfast and glare at him, waiting for an answer, an explanation, just something. And when I realise I don't get any of it, I will stand up wordlessly, take my jacket and walk over to Sarah, cursing him all the way, still cursing him when I enter her house.

And I will ask her all the questions I want to ask him and my voice will change from angry, to desperate, to whiny.

Sarah knows everything.

I had sex with Sarah once, only two weeks after I met her. I remember me above her, my hands tight at her shoulders, my eyes closed. And I remember how he appeared in my mind, all of a sudden, just as I had reached climax. The images were so strong, so colourful, so nailed before my eyes that I called out his name.

I opened my eyes quickly, right after that, and found Sarah's eyes, focusing me. She wasn't surprised.

I don't know which shocked me more; the fact that I was imagine sleeping with him or the fact that Sarah showed no surprise. But I got out of the bed, grabbed my clothes and dashed out of the house at once.

I ran around whole London that day, trying to persuade myself it wasn't true. Trying to persuade myself that I had been hallucinating, that there was a complete logical explanation for it.

It took me some time to understand that there really **was** a logical explanation – I love him.

Sarah has been a blast, afterwards. She's my ally in this. So when the whipping started, there was no one else I could go to. She endures it all. All my shouts, my complains, my desperation… She endures it and tenderly tries to convince me that this is leading me to nowhere. That every day, every hour, every minute I spend with him is ripping me more and more apart. That I am whipped myself.

As if I didn't know.

The whipping has stopped. Obviously, they have taken it to the next step, which would obviously be that the man he brought with him takes him. Probably on his knees.

I shouldn't think about it, but I find no way out of it. Though I cannot hear anything anymore, the images are burnt into my mind.

What I'd give to end this. I have thought about it. I have thought about waiting until the other man leaves, then go into his room (he never locks the door, just like I don't) and care for him. I will care for the wounds, at first, and then I will care for his soul and mine. I will touch and kiss each healthy millimetre of his soft skin, loose myself into these astonishing eyes while I kiss his lips.

Those eyes… They are always the last thing I wonder about before I fall asleep.

I sit at the table and glare. I haven't even touched my breakfast. His lip is swollen and still a little bit bloody. This is different. I have never before seen any physical wound at him. This is new. And it's driving me mad.

"It's getting a little bit out of control, don't you think?" I ask. It's the first time I speak with him after a night like that and I have trouble to control my voice.

He doesn't look up, but he speaks. He really speaks.

"We had a clash of opinion as it came to the paying terms", he says smoothly. "Nothing to worry about."

My hand hits the table. The cutlery on the plates rattles.

"God damnit, Sherlock, this has to stop", I say loudly.

"Why? Does it bother your sleep?" he asks calmly.

"I know exactly why you do this", I say, my teeth clenched.

"So, do you?" Sherlock asks, not sounding very interested.

"Yes, I do."

"I suppose you'll find it unavoidable to tell me, will you?"

"Moriarty", I say.

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me. "Moriarty?"

"You imagine them to be him."

"Why would I do that?"

Because he wants him. I have seen it, in both of them, at the pool. The tension between them was far more than just intellectual. The way they narrowed each other… For a second, I believed they'd do it right there, jump at each other, fight, struggle and fuck right there under my eyes.

"Domination", I say.

"Interesting, John, really, but totally wrong, as always", he says, taking the newspaper.

The anger burns me, eats me up from inside. I cannot bear this anymore. Sarah is right. It's ripping me apart. I wave my hand over the table and the plates and glasses fall down onto the floor.

"Fuck you", I say as I stand up and storm out of the room. I almost run against Misses Hudson, who came up, alarmed by the noise.

"What are you two doing again?" she asks, but I don't answer. I storm out of the house, into the rain, seeking for an absolution which I cannot receive. My absolution is him.


	2. Domination

A/N: Disclaimer etc., see first chapter.

Chapter Two: Domination

"_I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to your power."( Leopold von Sacher-Masoch)_

He's gone. Misses Hudson stares at the broken plates, shocked by John's behaviour. She wouldn't have been shocked if it had been me, of course.

"Sherlock, dear. What have you done now?"

What have I done? Well, let's state it simple:

"Every action causes a reaction, Misses Hudson", I reply calmly. "That's a physical law."

She shakes her head, the good, poor Misses Hudson – I bet she never thought I'd be that much trouble – and says: "I am not going to help you clean up that mess."

And she goes down.

Silence, finally.

I stand up, ignoring the mess on the floor, and walk over to the couch. Normally, I lie there, when I am thinking, tired of the world outside.

But to lie down is not an option for today; neither will it be an option for tomorrow. That one yesterday had a good grip on the whip.

I know of course where John is heading. He's heading to _her_, like he always does on these occasions. He will ring her doorbell and she will lead him in. And then he will complain about my bad behaviour, without respecting my privacy and then they will end up in her bed (not on the couch, John's an honourable man). He will be tender and caring and she will be whispering stupid love quotes and clasp him in her arms.

That's what people call "making love". It's not what I do. It's not what I need.

He isn't completely wrong, after all. Moriarty is involved in all this, but in a way he would not imagine. It's not a coincidence that it all started right after the events at the pool. In my life, there is no coincidence. It's all logic.

I remember that night, remember it very well. I remember all the tones and grimaces of Moriarty, but they are not important. Important is only the moment when he walked in, the bomb under his jacket.

I was taken aback in that moment. Taken aback by a sudden flash of anger that seemed to burn my whole body. How could he have been so stupid?

He is a soldier, after all.

And still, I didn't know what this anger meant. Moriarty knew it, of course. He had known it from the start, I believe.

But I couldn't see it.

I was blinded by the wish to slap him in the face, ask him why he couldn't watch his steps for one single time.

As I was ripping the bomb off him, I was very, very close to rip the rest of his clothes down in the same time, pin him down to the floor and take him right there, no matter how much he would have fought me. And he would have, of course. But I wouldn't have mattered. I would have laid my hands onto his shoulders, to keep him down. I wouldn't have wasted any time with caresses or tender words. I would just have nailed him down to the ground, moaning his name from the bitter beginning to the bitter end.

But none of this happened.

Instead, I strolled around with the weapon in my hand, totally unable to get a single clear thought for minutes, speaking stupid lines.

But I understood, then. I understood what Moriarty had meant when he had said he would burn the heart out of me. I understood why I felt the urgent wish to dominate him right there, even against his will.

I would have done it until now, a dozen times, if I hadn't found another outlet. Every day I feel close to it, I go out, down the streets and to the stations. I always choose men with a complete different physical appearance and I always choose the ones who are so high on drugs they wouldn't think about anything.

They always do what I want. I give him the whip, then undress and get down on the floor. I tell them to hit hard (seldom I have to advise them to hit harder) and none of them refuses. None of them cares about my screams. None of them really hears them. I need to muffle my screams.

The walls are thin.

He shall not hear his name.

When I've had enough with the whip, I redress. I order them to be silent, then offer them something to drink.

I will drink in a standing position, of course.

I don't need them to fuck me. The humiliation with the whip is enough for me, enough domination. Until now, at least. They will leave a little later and my thoughts will be cleared. The images of me taking him will have vanished.

The images of me making love to him will remain.

But they aren't dangerous.

The intervals are getting shorter. It worries me sometimes, but then I tell myself that there is always someone at the stations who is willing to come with me.

And yet, there might be the day when it won't be enough.

Moriarty would be the final solution.

There is sexual tension between us, but it's only coming from him. He wants to beat me, intellectually, emotionally, sexually. Simply in every possible way.

If I went off for him, he'd show me domination in its purest form.

I wouldn't think off dominating John afterwards.

I wouldn't think off making love to him as well.

He is worried about me. John. And he is angry, of course, because he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand I do it all for him.

He made me laugh.

That, exactly, was the critical point. Though I didn't deduce it then, I have deduced it now.

I laughed. Honestly, openly, like all those ordinary people do day by day.

I am smiling now, just by the thought of it.

How could he make me laugh?

No, I was never really searching a flatmate because I couldn't afford the flat. It was an experiment, actually. I was up to study the relationship between flatmates. It could have been useful, someday. You never know.

And then, all of a sudden, I caught myself laughing. Laughing because of an ordinary joke that shouldn't have amused me.

I didn't see it. I was blinded by my own genius, my own idea of this experiment, too blinded to see that the experiment was going out of line.

I should have seen it as Lestrade was searching our flat for drugs and I told him to shut up.

I didn't worry about Lestrade. I worried about him, about his opinion of me if he knew I had been a little addicted (out of boredom, of course).

I could feel his disappointment as I did. And it hurt. God damnit, it hurt!

I should have realised it with the milk, at least.

I never go and buy real food. I have my dinners on the way. I don't waste time with cooking. I don't eat breakfast. I don't seriously need milk.

But I said yes. Not to distract him, as it may have seemed. I was really wanting to. Wanting to buy stupid milk, just to do him a favour. Just to see him smile, to see those soft eyes shine with happiness because he would have believed he'd finally achieved something.

He's an idiot.

He's achieved so much more he bargained for, more than I bargained for. The experiment is out of control.

I need the whip. I am seeking absolution in the whip, but I'll never receive it. My absolution is him.

_(So, here we have it, the second point of view. Shall we continue with the third, the tender one?)_


	3. Allies

A/N: Disclaimer etc., see first chapter.

Chapter Three: Allies

„_There is nothing like the razor sharp tongue of a good friend to cut through the lies we tell ourselves." (Laura Moncur)_

He's pacing up and down my flat and I watch him from the couch, as always. He won't talk for at least a quarter; it's almost a ritual by now. Nothing changing, only the intervals. They are getting shorter.

Many people would tell me I was god damn crazy for letting him in and listen to him, after what happened in that night. That night when we were three and should have been two.

I can't explain it properly. I guess I knew from the beginning that we were not really matching, but I thought a little dating, kissing and even making out wouldn't be any harm.

It wasn't, actually. I wasn't even surprised when he said his name.

Seldom have I seen such a dynamic between two people like the one between him and Sherlock Holmes. It was so obvious, the way he avoided talking and being close to him, as if he feared to get burnt by a touch.

He didn't even need a touch to get burnt.

I hate to see him like that. See his eyes turn from angry, to desperate, to lovesick.

The reason I liked him from the beginning was his eyes. So gentle, open and loyal.

I suppose that's why Sherlock chose him as a flatmate. He looked into his eyes for just a second and realised this man would follow and admire him with the deepest loyalty.

He's a jerk, Sherlock.

He never thinks about the impact his actions have to the people around him. He doesn't matter.

I never liked him, but I started hating him just as John turned up, pacing in my flat, for the first time, desperate, lost and hurt.

He's ripping him apart and he doesn't even notice.

He would do it all the same even if he noticed.

I feel the anger crawl up to my lips. I know this feeling very well; I've had it a dozen times now. But I never told John the truth. I comforted him with lies. Told him that it would surely end one day, that Sherlock would realise his behaviour was immature.

That he might even realise he hurts him.

I don't believe it. But I tried to make him believe it, because I thought it would be kind.

But Sherlock Holmes isn't kind.

John Watson is.

He stopps pacing and looks at me.

"I confronted him", he says. "With my theory."

"How did he react?"

"He told me I was wrong."

"You don't believe him."

"No."

"I thought you didn't want to confront him."

"The guy last night hit him in the face."

Brilliant. Finally, good news.

"Why?" I ask, trying to keep the cheering out of my voice.

"He said they argued about the paying."

"You think he's lying?"

"Of course he is. He's just taking it further and further, to the ultimate."

"Moriarty", I say.

"Yes." And he continues pacing up and down.

_Then let him go to him, _I think. _Let him go and finally face some consequences._

I don't say it, though I really have trouble to hold my tongue.

He stops again and looks at me, his eyes so disparate that I can almost feel his pain. And then, he asks the one question I feared all the time. That one, stupid question.

"Why can't I hinder him from going, Sarah?"

I hesitate. You cannot answer a question like that with a lie. Not to a friend.

"Because you are just his blogger", I say.

He stars at me, hurt and confused.

"He's not into you, John. He's into the evil. Some people get their kicks out of that."

"But why?" he asks.

"Because he is an idiot", I reply. "And you are an idiot for clinging onto him."

"I am an idiot?" he asks in disbelief.  
>"Yes, you are. He's ripping you apart, John, can't you see it? He hurts you with his actions and you still crawl back to him every single time and forgive him, though he doesn't even ask you for forgiveness. He keeps you around because it's easy and comfortable, there's no greater meaning to it."<p>

Finally, the truth. The expression in his eyes tells me he didn't expect that. But I am sick of lying. I am sick of seeing him haunted by an egoist like Sherlock Holmes. He deserves better.

"You think I shall move out, then?"

"No, I don't think you should move out", I say slowly. "I think you should grab your stuff and run, before he's torn you apart."

He stars at me, unsure what to reply, but I think he understands. I think he understands that this is the only way he'll ever find absolution.

_(Now w__e heard what Sarah has to say. Let's give Sergeant Sally Donovan a try, shall we?)_


	4. Freaks

_A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One._

Chapter Four: Freaks

"_What is objectionable, what is dangerous, about extremists is not that they are extreme, but that they are intolerant. The evil is not what they say about their cause, but what they say about their opponent." (Robert Francis Kennedy)_

A weirdo. A freak. A sociopath. A danger. An anger. A fucked-up former drug junky. A better fucked-down arrogant egoist.

That's what I call him, though I stick with freak when he appears. Oh, he's so smart, so genius, Lestrade says. He's not really hiding his admiration.

I don't see anything special in him. He's like all the other freaks, desperately trying to get attention, no matter in which way. He's maniac, when he's _investigating_, and he is depressive when he's not. He's a danger to all of us, a time bomb, exploding without forewarning.

I am trying to forewarn people. I tried with Lestrade, but he's so focused on his own success that he shook hands with the devil.

Anderson listened, all right, but I had to whisper it to him sweetly, while he was moaning my name.

I tried to forewarn Doctor Watson. Actually, I wanted to call him just the same, a freak, but then I had one look into those deep puppy eyes and I wanted to grab him, force him out of the line of fire, out of an impulse.

_He's_ going to break him.

What is it with him, that woos little good naïve Molly Hooper out of her shoes and makes people, good people like Dr. Watson, jump before him in childish heroism?

Okay, he may be good looking (if you are into thin, pale, tall British snobs), but he's not nice. He's not gentle. He is not caring.

We all could be shot down dead if it would excite him. Damn, he would shot us down dead if it would excite him!

Sometimes, when I am alone, I remember the scene at the pool. I remember how Lestrade called out he had found Watson and that he was alive, as I set my feet further to the dusty ruins.

I remember how I found him, finally, his long, thin legs half covered under the rest of a door. I remember the dust in his face and his curly dark hair, remember his ripped jeans, remember his shirt ripped a little over the edge of his jeans. I remember the edge of his underwear, grey, like the dust. He had his eyes clothes and on his forehead, under some mad curls, I could see a little blood leaking from his head.

For a second, I thought he was dead.

My heart brimmed over with joy.

And then he opened his eyes. He opened his fucked up former drug junky eyes and said: "Don't enjoy it too early, Sally."

I could have killed him. I would have, if the echo of the shot wouldn't have alarmed a dozen Yard officers.

And then he stood up, clapping his coat off the dust and walked briskly part me, over to Lestrade who was talking to John, already on his feet as well.

I caught him, three years ago, with the needle still in his arm, on an underground station. He had just begun to work with Lestrade and our team, but I just needed one look at him to form my opinion.

And there he was, in the middle of the night, a needle in his left, his eyes even more glassy than they usually were.

He didn't try to hide as he saw me.

He smiled.

I remember how I walked over to him, ripped the needle out of his arm (though I would have wished to reload it and just burn him with heroin) and handcuffed him.

He didn't seem surprised.

I took him to Lestrade, just in the state that he was, with the end of his coat muddy and dirty, sweat on his forehead and those glassy, yet amused eyes.

Lestrade had a long look on him and for a second, I believed he'd be reasonable. But then, he just shook his head and sighed.

"What's this about, Sherlock?"

He was acting like the freak was just a little schoolboy who had stolen some pounds from his mother to buy himself sweets.

And as he walked out, as a free man, he had said the same sentence: "Don't enjoy it too early, Sally."

God, how I wished Moriarty would have killed him. Killed him, and finally, given me absolution.

_(So far for Sally. Let's see who will be the next one, sharing his / hers opinion.)_


	5. Enemies

_A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One._

Chapter Five: Enemies

"_Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."_

_(Terry Pratchett)_

I know what he believes. Everyone else might find it hard to look through those steel blue eyes, but I don't. I see through them without any effort. I know he believes I'd like him before me, on his knees. I know he believes I'd like to hurt him, burn him, humiliate him.

He is wrong.

Not that I don't want to do all those things to him, but I don't want to do it like he imagines. I don't want him stretched out before me, pinned and nailed to the ground. Oh, I have thought about it, but just with the passion of aesthetic.

He is very aesthetic, Sherlock, with his thin body, the long fingers, the porcelain skin and this exciting jaw. I sometimes imagine how I would step onto those fingers, hear the thin bones crack. I imagine to scratch his chest, cut it open and drink the blood dripping from it.

Only, it wouldn't break him. All those nasty naughty little things I might do to him – they wouldn't break him. He would think about it, for some time, and maybe scream my name in his nightmares, but Sherlock isn't a physical man. He's not wasting time about his body. He's only dressed fairly because he appreciates the style. He'd walk around in old fashioned, Norwegian style jumpers if he'd taken a liking on it.

You can see it in his hair, this curly, messy hair that he doesn't give a damn on how he's looking.

It's a failure. In this world, clothes stand for everything. Poverty, wealth, stupidity, smartness. Weakness. And might. That's the reason I keep playing with them, with clothes. You can be everything, if you only wear the right clothes. It's the perfect, the easiest masquerade.

No, no. It would be quite fun to take him, bounded, helpless, even screaming, but it wouldn't be the ultimate solution.

I realised that very quickly, even when he didn't.  
>He's so arrogant, believing he's untouchable. Everyone on the good side is touchable.<p>

I was underestimating _him_ when I called him his pet. I had a slight idea of how their relationship was, but I realised the true nature too late. If I had done it earlier, I wouldn't have messed with the bomb jacket. I'd broken both of them before.

He's cute, in a puppy, adorable way, with his small body and the big puppy eyes. Oh, he's so on fire. You can see it in every expression, every gesture, hear it in every word – well, me at last. Sherlock doesn't. He doesn't because he doesn't want to.

He's weak.

_He's_ just so not an army man. A doctor, yes. A shooter, a killer, no.

I suppose women like to clasp their arms and legs around him and tell him he's so adorable.

Phew.

I know Sherlock wants to clasp his arms and legs around him and tell him he's so adorable.

That's a laugh.

I will take _him_, the good, dear, loyal John. I will take him as my puppy, on his knees, like the dog he is.

I will undress his belt and use it to whip him bloody, though I will not drink from his blood. It's too weak.

And I will whisper to him, tenderly, like Sherlock probably would, in that somehow shadow, distracted voice. That will really break him. To think about him when I have him, hear his words while I will shout out my success.

To break _him_ means to break Sherlock.

He wouldn't stand it, dear Watson, to look at him again after I would have humiliated him. He's an honourable man. Man like that shudder with the weakness of being raped. Shudder and shatter.

Yet, without him, Sherlock is nothing anymore. A poor shadow from his former being. That's the true nature of love. It's the fall down; never the absolution.

_(Two more before we come to the two ending chapters, well, if you like to continue.)_


	6. The honourable Landlady

_A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One._

Chapter Six: The honourable Landlady

"_What this world needs is a new kind of army - the army of the kind." ( Cleveland Amory)_

They have a marital row. Again. They are arguing a lot in the last time, though they do it silently. No shouts disturb me.

They are two fine young men, really. I keep telling Misses Turner. Her couple is more… exhausting, yes. They shout and fight all night long.

Well, of course, marriage is a struggle, but you should keep it between yourself and your partner.

No, I cannot complain. I'd never complain about Sherlock, of course. He's been so great in Florida. So sweet. I know he doesn't like it when I call him sweet, but he is.

You may not see it directly when you meet him, but he truly is.

He is a little bit grumpy, sometimes, but we all are, aren't we? It's just because he's bored.

He's too brilliant for the world outside. Who really understands a genius?

Well, he gets himself into trouble, but it doesn't affect me so much. Okay, there was this drug bust one time, but that wasn't his fault. These normal police officers, they envy him so much because their vision is so… limited compared to his.

Sergeant Donovan really hates him. It's a pity. She could be really beautiful if she wouldn't always look so angry. She just doesn't understand him.

Genius always has side effects… I remember that line from a TV show, but I can't clearly remember which one it was.

Ah, and then, there was the time he was shooting at the wall. He's a little bit over the top, sometimes. Yet, he wouldn't have argued if I had made him pay it.

I didn't, by the way. You just need to remind him that you're the boss in the house and then, all's fine.

And he's not very decent, I daresay. Though I don't mind, behind my façade, I am not very decent as well. No decent lady would engage a consulting detective to make sure her husband would be sentenced to death.

No, Sherlock is a good boy. A little deranged, like all of us.

He's been a loner as I met him. Never saw him in company, until he brought the army doctor with him.

John Watson. Oh, he's such a sweetheart. I know he would hate it if I called him that way, but he simply is. A hero, of course. Being to Afghanistan and being shot. It's a shame they pay former soldiers so bad. I mean, they sent them to war and if they are shot at and useless for them, they sent them to the streets.

It's not fair. Not at all.

But lucky for Sherlock. I couldn't imagine any better flatmate for him.

He accepts him, just like he is. They even work together. And, since he is a doctor, there's finally someone in the house who has enough authority to tell Sherlock that breathing, eating and sleeping are not boring, but necessary if he plans to stay alive.

He is always so gentle, good Dr. Watson. No matter to whom. He's even able to calm Sergeant Donovan's temper.

But most of all, he's able to calm Sherlock's temper.

Or he was, at least.

I don't know what happened that night they got themselves blown up in that pool, but something's changed. John's leaving the house more often than before and Sherlock's always so moody when he's gone. He won't eat, or sleep, until the doctor comes back. He won't talk to him, then. Sometimes, he's really childish.

They don't even go out for dinner anymore. They used to go to Angelo's, or the Chinese Restaurant, before this event. It seems all they do is sitting in the flat in silent reproach.

I keep watching them, both, closely. I know they just see an old, weird lady in me, but I am twice their age. I've got a little more experience in life than they do and actually, I am not stupid.

I know, of course, they aren't a couple. I was just teasing them a little, because people do that. People talk about such things when two bachelors share a flat.

I realised a change in Sherlock's behaviour when John Watson moved in. It wasn't there right from the beginning, it was more an insidious process, but it was there.

He was smiling, suddenly. Not smirking. Really smiling.

I knew it, then. Knew there was something there, something that hadn't been there before. I was happy.

How could I know it would be such a mess between them?

I don't doubt that John feels the same. He's so eager to be around him and yet so eager to keep him on arm's length that he could write the obvious on his forehead.

Only, Sherlock doesn't see it, just like John doesn't realise why Sherlock's smiling.

Men. They are so blind when it comes down to feelings.

Keeping their lips pressed together tightly will never bring them absolution.

_(The __TV show in which the line: "Genius has side effects" appeared was Dr. House, of course. So now we just got one point of view left before we're dealing with the ending.)_


	7. Brothers

_A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One._

Chapter Seven: Brothers

"_Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago - the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider... It doesn't seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we've travelled." (Jane Mersky Leder)_

One could easily underestimate Dr. Watson. Normal people, at last. They wouldn't believe he's been a soldier and he's been to war. He has such a decent, loyal face; with his big puppy eyes, you'd think he could never harm anyone.

I didn't believe that, not one second. If you take a closer look at him, behind those lovely eyes and the short haircut, John Watson is a man who likes physical danger.

He is an interesting man, this doctor.

I thought I had figured him out perfectly, but then those two fools blew up the pool and everything changed.

I was there, of course. I never lied when I said I was concerned about Sherlock. I truly am. He hasn't really figured out his path in life, still. That's the one point, the only point, we are totally different in. Sadly, it's a very worrying point. I cannot allow him to change sides. I would need to chase him down if he would, and I'd rather not do that. Mother wouldn't be happy about it.

He knows I am watching every step he takes and he hates it. Of course he does. He's so arrogant, believing he can solve everything alone, not realising he will never be able to solve the most dangerous case on his own: himself.

But, well, on the other hand, I think he likes to keep me occupied. I still suspect he just had an addiction to cocaine because he knew it would anger me.

It did anger me.

Just like it angered me they blew up the pool without even getting a single grip on Moriarty. Two men, one of them highly intelligent, the other a proper soldier. I couldn't believe they let him escape. But then, there was the change. The change in the dynamic between them. In the atmosphere. In the eyes of both of them.

Something had happened at the pool, something that left Sherlock in question and doubt, and Dr. Watson in simple shock.

It was rather easy to figure it out.

Though I was joking as I asked Dr. Watson if I could expect a happy announcement by the end of the week. Sherlock and I are equal in that, as well. Love has never really touched our minds. I know there are a lot of beautiful women working under me, but I never pay them any attention. At least, not because they are beautiful. To me, love is mostly a waste of time and resources. And it's been the same for Sherlock.

Until they blew up the pool.

I almost smile when I think about how many headaches Sherlock has probably had before _he_ figured it out, but then again, it's not a point you should be smiling on. Not because it would hurt his feelings – I am beyond of worrying for that -, but because it's a dangerous state.

Sherlock is so… uncontrolled, even if all the others might think different. I know exactly how his mind works, how it rushes, pushes, rebels at barricades… He's a dangerous man when he's thinking, because he is totally out of control.

I believed Dr. Watson could be the one controlling his temper a little and it worked fair enough until he became the topic of Sherlock's thoughts.

I know he has begun the nasty habit of taking junkies to his flat again and I believe he's less than a step away from buying cocaine again, as well.

And I believe that Dr. Watson has freaked out absolutely as he had realised he was into him.

As I said, he enjoys physical danger, our good Watson, but when it comes to emotions, he likes them soft and comfortable.

Poor Dr. Watson. Army men are usually a little homophobe, and even though his sister is a lesbian, he surely never considered himself gay. He wishes normality for his family life, a wife, a house, children, probably even a dog.

And then – boom! – a pool explodes and his wishes fall down to pieces.

I don't know if he'll give in to this insight. I don't know if Sherlock will. But I know for sure that if they don't, we'll have a greater problem then a blown-up pool and a criminal mastermind on his run. We'll have a Sherlock Holmes out of control and a Dr. Watson who won't be able to keep him on the ground, who'll only push him further.

And yet, I cannot do anything but wait. If I interfere, it will only become worse. And how should I probably interfere?

It's their choice, now. Destruction – or absolution.

_(__So, last point of view. Let's see if Holmes and Watson are able to find what they seek. Though I need to warn you, the next chapter won't be nice and soft.)_


End file.
